Volume 10: I am who I say you said I am
Immortal Sea Gods, Rat Murder, Therapy and Four High And Low Falutin Other Things
Hi there,
Yesterday, a hearse almost hit me as I crossed the street looking for orange juice. It was my birthday.
I know that’s a metaphor that’s too easy — please don’t think I made it up. Though it’s been awhile, I would still never lie to you, dearest reader.
As you age, things are supposed to speed up, like a novel that’s good or the odd vindictive hearse, because the inherent novelty of living goes down. Strangely, this past year has been the slowest I’ve lived in a long time. Each month was a mile instead of a block. I wrote this intro in the same place I spent my birthday last year, but everything is different except for the orange juice.
I am unemployed, I am in love, I am confident about reading poetry out loud, I am not confident about anything else. I am adjusting to my body looking different instead of adjusting my body to what people tell me it should be. I need to figure out what to do with the poetry I’ve stockpiled. It is cool that I have a stockpile. I am sleepy all the time, I like oysters now, I wore a gold dress to a birthday party with one million of my closest friends that I’m not sure I deserved.
Birthdays are an occasion for everyone to tell you about yourself.
Twenty-five was a growing year for me, and like in adolescence, that means lately I’ve been very uncomfortable living within my body and spirit. I had a strange moment at my party when taking in the nice things people were saying about me because it all clashed with the inner narrative that’s been taking hold. It felt like implosion.
It’s a gross problem to type about — What do I dooooo…. People are being too nice to meeeeee…. but that maybe makes it more necessary to acknowledge. Even good things are complicated.
I think that my friends thought I needed a celebration. An intervention to remind me that mistakes don’t quite make a person, and no one outside of my own head keeps a rolodex of the thoughts I have that are the meanest, angriest, most impatient, most steeped in jealousy… etc. Like when I’m in a coffee shop in my favorite freelancing outfit, people are usually judging based on my overalls.
For the past few months, I’ve been ruminating upon the concept of legacies as they’re written by those around us.
Because have you ever spoken or written about someone in your life this way?
“He… began to swim powerfully against the tossing sea… using only his right arm and kick for locomotion. It was a remarkable exhibition of balance and strength; I swam alongside him and even with two arms found it arduous going.”
I certainly have come close. Like in this poem I wrote about holding hands. But, what about this?
“…he was an immortal sea god, not from Oak Park, Illinois, at all but Poseidon, emerging from his aquatic kingdom.”
After Ernest Hemingway died, his friend A.E. Hotchner wrote a biography of him called Papa Hemingway. In the above quotes, as in the entire book, I’ve been chuckling to myself about the way Hotchner consistently and exuberantly compliments Hemingway. Death often leads to flowery language, but I don’t know if my extended obituary for anyone would include the phrase, “immortal sea god.” I’m sorry if that’s disappointing to you, dear reader.
With an equal mix of skepticism and amusement, I have to wonder: What was Hotchner’s motivation? Was he just a journalist who happened to have the talent and connections to write about a dear friend he admired — pure of intention, pure of spirit — or was the biography he wrote partially motivated by a desire to hitch his own legacy to Hemingway’s star? Two-for-one lionization, two-for one immortality. If Hemingway continues to be revered in death, Hotchner himself might have known that he’d inherit some of that reverence too.
But also, if I were Hemingway, I would be thankful to have left my legacy in Hotchner’s hands — whether or not I would have dared compare myself to Poseidon.
So, where does that leave me?
At my party, there were boot shots and a boot cake and boots on my feet and on most people’s feet and alligator temporary tattoos that somehow didn’t end up on my face by the end of the evening. Then, on my real birthday, I received another evening of kindness and laughter that I’m trying and struggling to believe that I deserved.
But, if I am what people tell me I am, then I think this year will be just fine.
Of mice and pens.
In the middle of the city, there is a garden called the m’Finda Kalunga Community Garden (Mk Garden for short). It is community-run and community-led. It is the best garden of its kind, according to my extremely biased sources.
Each month, a group of likeminded, green-thumb owners gathers to talk about garden politics — from impending tree death to whether lanternflys count as biodiversity.
Our protagonist, an agent of famy or infamy (depending on who you ask) is friend of the neuesletter Alisanne. She wields incredible power in several spheres of the city. By most days, as a teacher. On Monday nights, as a Dungeons and Dragons Dungeon Master. Monthly, as secretary of Mk Garden.
Every protagonist has both a villain and a quest.
Alisanne’s villain is [redacted]. His place on community garden court? The estranged rat king of Chrystie St. The rodent eradicator of Lower Manhattan. The pied piper. At each meeting, he soapbox stands to lead the charge against rat visitors to Eden.
Plainly put, it is his mission to kill the community garden’s rats.
Remember the quest we talked about? The thing [redacted] hasn’t considered in his garden soliloquies about rodent eradication is who exactly holds the pen. In this case, Alisanne does. She is vehemently opposed to his work because she thinks it is the antithesis of the garden’s purpose. She is the avenger for all who are four-pawed, oily-tailed and furry. Her quest is to prevent [redacted] from achieving glory.
So, Alisanne has spent the past year systematically erasing him from the community garden’s meeting minutes.
Each month, he speaks. Each month, he is reduced to an oral history. Each month, a man becomes what Alisanne thinks of him.
I think this is very funny.
I think this illustrates how little control we have over who makes and keeps our legacies.
I wonder if situations like this are the true genesis of mythology — presenting one’s efforts and one’s community as better (or worse) than it is.
I wonder if, through the sands of time, future community gardeners will wonder how this golden garden era was free of rats, since no eradication methods were recorded. Sowing ever more ideological dissent due to the unreal thread of setting a new rodent reduction precedent. Or, maybe, future gardeners will raise their heads a little higher without the specter of [redacted] and his atrocities hanging over them.
Of course, these records live in Alisanne’s Google Drive. So, maybe the story will just be plain lost — no editorialization needed.
Non-Seq Nonsense: The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.
This is the heading I use when I want to write about something that’s a fairly large departure from my standard fare.
Awhile back, I wrote an email template that breaks down how I personally found a therapist in five steps, so I could quickly give my two cents to friends having a difficult time parsing the ridiculously confusing world of mental health help. Lately, I’ve been forwarding the email… a lot more than usual, so I thought I’d share it to the wider audience of this neuesletter.
NOTE: This process isn’t ever one size fits all, and I’m by no means an expert. If it doesn’t work for you or your circumstances, don’t do it! This is just what worked for me.
A Five-Step Guide to Therapist Acquisition According To My Personal Experiences In the Mental Health Rodeo. Yee-haw.
Go to this website: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/therapists
Filter as much as you can (insurance, focus areas if you have an idea, gender of therapist if you care, location — this one is really important because therapists often won’t be able to serve out-of-state clients, whether you want virtual or in-person, etc.) to lower the number of options.
Use the in-website “email this person” button to send five of the therapists who look fine all the same message.
Don’t spend too much time fixating on comparing/contrasting individual therapists before you talk to them — you never know who actually has availability. See if their general countenance/practice seems to fit and move along.
The message should basically say: “Hi I’m looking to book an initial consultation if you have any availability. I have a history with XYZ // want to work on XYZ // or am interested in talking about XYZ,“ to give them a little context. It could even be less than that; I just like to give them some bullet points to work with.
Either the therapist you emailed or someone from their practice (sometimes they’ll say “Gina doesn’t have availability but Kate does. Do you want to try meeting with her?”) will email back about scheduling an initial 15 min. online consult and probably ask for your health insurance info, so they can pre-check it. Best practice is to talk to a few and see who seems like the best personality/availability fit, but I’ve also just… really liked the first one I talked to before. Trust your gut.
Then, after that, if you decide to move forward together, you’ll do a one-hour intake meeting that’s… kind of emotionally depleting because it’s a lot of radical honesty with a stranger. Plan an easy but nice night for yourself after you have one. I recommend seeing someone safe / calling someone safe rather than being alone.
Annnnd, that’s it! If this makes the process seem a little bit easier to one person, using this much real estate on it will have been worth it.
Now it’s time for Four Things, and we’re outta here!
Something old: This scene from Closer (great movie, recommend) about obituaries and their corresponding euphemisms. Ryland sent it to me eons ago.
Something new: Abby’s incredible newsletter, Polaroids | Poetry!!! This is in the NEW section because she actually… consistently publishes it, unlike yours truly. What an idea… SUBSCRIBE. IT’S BEAUTIFUL IN BOTH LOOKS AND IN WORDS. JUST LIKE YOUR WIFE. OR SOMETHING ELSE YOU LOVE.
Something borrowed: He Took His Skin Off For Me. This is Alisanne’s favorite short. C/w: it is delightfully horrifying. Becka, you won’t like this one. (Also s/o to Becka for lending me the book I quoted in the first section!). Also this article about the continuity (or lack thereof) of self that neuesletter friend Gadi shared with me two minutes before I hit send on this issue.
Something fruit (or vegetable): Produce Parties! Every once in awhile these cool people hold a fancy potluck party based around a specific produce item. Last time? Tomatoes. The time before that? Peas. Follow them to wait with bated breath for the next party announcement… S/o to Sarah for taking me to my first one!
AND THAT’S IT! WE FINALLY DID IT!
It’ll be nice to meet you tomorrow. Maybe see you at the garden? It’ll be fun, you immortal sea god you.
— N. Graney I
P.S. Lucky penny for your thoughts? I’ve been thinking about John Travolta’s sparkling eyes and swoopy hair because I got to see Grease in a movie theater the other day. Send me whatever your brain’s been occupied with, and I’ll give you a cent for your two cents.
Are you new here?
Welcome! Stay awhile and maybe Ryland will deliver balloons to your doorstep. (I’ll try my best.)
Happy belated birthday to you! Thank you for this fantastic letter. As a fellow Leo (and your biggest fan), I thoroughly enjoyed your birthday sentiments and will wait with bated breath for the next volume in my inbox.